Ping Pong Parp

If you hear the sound of rat-tat-a-tat It's not a woodpecker or a chattering cat Tis George F. Latulence an aristocrat Playing ping pong with his gold crested bat. A competitor and show-off he deems to be Dresses each day in his noble finery Pantaloons his normal fancy day wear His ancestry, finery, regalia, style flair. He never shares glory or plays with a partner Winning trophies for himself, what he is after Agile and swift, rarely points he would miss The downside came, when you did get that whiff. To gain advantage, a parp he would do Clenching bum cheeks, in case he followed through High class energy foods for his body to sustain But his parping was every one else's nose bane. George on first serve, parped, as he hit the ball hard Swiftly attacking, George butt did bombard In that spilt second threw off his opponent Point gain to George, aided by his flatulent moment. Silent and deadly they all came out fast Odourous gas from George nuclear fueled ar$e If one made a noise he'd give a loud grunt That was his bum burping cover up stunt. Knew there was trouble when audiences pulled faces Some even fainted, brave stayed in their seat places George didn't care, just wanted top podium status His methods and thinking obnoxiously atrocious. Audience faces were different shades of green People were swaying, some even vomiting. He called it his ping pong, parp-crafty-art farts Next point to win, final round about to start. The ball went to and fro like a speeding fast bullet George, with match point, he was about to secure it Hitting an ace, made a spark, that caused a boom blast Left the audience with mix feelings of relief and aghast. Breaking news of his death headlines did broadcast Even able to download from what's called a podcast George F. Latulence died from a blast from his ar$e, He blew up one too many, too dense and not sparse. May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2 Poetry Contest Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke Written 07.10.21